


Candy Hearts, Fits and Starts

by nicKnack22



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Human Castiel, M/M, Mark of Cain, Pining, Purgatory, Season/Series 05, Season/Series 06, Season/Series 08, Season/Series 09, Season/Series 10, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-16
Updated: 2015-02-16
Packaged: 2018-03-13 04:10:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3367259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nicKnack22/pseuds/nicKnack22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five Valentine's Dean and Cas spent together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Candy Hearts, Fits and Starts

I.

Their first Valentine’s Day is, by definition, a catastrophe.

Sure, some parts of it are normal: there are red paper hearts decorating the restaurant where they share a meal (literally share one, cause Cas goes and steals Dean’s burger), and they’re working a case, which is relatively normal even if it does involve a couple of kids eating each other to death. Other parts? Not so much. There’s the whole Famine thing, first of all, and getting manhandled by Cupid (who is apparently a fucking nudist), Cas is eating (which starts off cute and endearing, but ends up really freaking gross), and Sam is jonsing for demon blood, and Dean feels, well, empty, achingly, piercingly, empty. 

Facing Famine on a good day is probably pretty shitty, facing him on Valentine’s Day sucks, and comes with the added bonus of giving you a lifelong complex. 

It’s the first Valentine’s Day that Dean isn’t out looking for a hookup (or three); it’s the first he’s not interested in capitalizing on the lonely and the horny and the sad. It’s also the first Valentine’s Day he spends with Cas, and, as fucking weird and miserable as it turns out to be, Dean’s not sure it’s a coincidence. Hell, years later, when Dean really thinks back on it, he’ll remember, somewhere beneath the stress and hopelessness, the fact that the only thing that eased the deep, dark hole inside of him, was sitting next to Cas. That, he’ll come to realize, wasn’t a coincidence either.

II.

Their second Valentine’s Day is one sided.

It’s during the year, the terrible, miserable, awful fucking year when Sam is in hell and Dean is in Indiana. That’s not fair, not really, the year isn’t all bad, hell, parts of it are good—they really are—which might be why it’s so terrible. Dean loves Lisa. Dean loves Ben. He does. And he’s lucky, so fucking lucky, that they took him in, that they deal with his shit day in and day out, because Dean is a wreck. It’s not fair to them—he thinks on the days when he can’t bring himself to get out of bed, when he cries, every night when he downs a fifth of whisky so he can sleep and checks the wards three times obsessively at four in the morning—it’s not fucking fair. 

By the time Valentine’s Day rolls around, it’s been almost a year since—well, since—and Dean’s not doing great, but he’s doing better. He’s got a job, and he makes dinner, and he tucks Ben in every night, and he doesn’t flinch when Lisa offers him a kind hand or kind words. They get a sitter for Ben (who protests that he’s too old for one) and they go out for dinner: a fancy Italian place in town. Dean gives Lisa roses and a silver bracelet (with protection charms). They drink wine, and share tiramisu, and they hold hands on the drive home. 

Lisa kisses Dean goodnight; he tells her he’ll be right up. He checks the wards, walks the perimeter of the first floor, pauses and stares out the window for a while, watching snow fall, nursing a beer. He’s not sure why he prays then. He hasn’t seen Cas in almost a year. Hasn’t heard shit from him since he vanished without as much as a fucking goodbye. But he does. While the snow falls, while Lisa and Ben sleep, while Sam rots in hell, while people out in the world just go on with the business of living and loving, Dean Winchester sits on the sofa, and he puts his face in his hands, and he prays. It’s shapeless, his prayer, there aren’t words beyond the broken, half-hearted “Cas” that he whispers into the darkened room, it’s more a feeling, a longing, an absence, nostalgia, comradery, friendship, it’s the empty place at his side reserved for Cas that feels dark and empty, as dark and empty as the place that belongs to Sam. 

He doesn’t expect Cas to show up after nine months of nothing, but it still hurts when the room remains dark and empty, silent except for Dean’s breath. 

Dean doesn’t see the Angel Castiel when he appears next to him on the sofa, pulled by a nameless something, rooted deep in his grace, that brings him next to Dean as surely as a wave is drawn to the shore. Dean doesn’t see the way Castiel looks at him, eyes wide and sorrowful. Dean doesn’t feel the ghostly hand that Castiel lays hesitantly, gently, against his shoulder. 

Nonetheless Castiel sits with Dean, watching, silent and invisible, until Dean sighs and gets to his feet, looks around the room once more, shakes his head and climbs the stairs. Castiel sits on the sofa another moment more, staring after Dean, before he too disappears.

III

Their third Valentine’s Day passes unbeknownst to them both.

Neither of them was carrying a calendar when they got sent to Purgatory; they’ve had bigger fish to fry than keeping holidays (like staying alive, and finding Cas, and avoiding Dean, and staying alive), besides Dean thinks that earth time and Purgatory time don’t match up and it would take some kind of fancy algorithm to figure out what day it is, one which Cas probably knows, but Dean probably doesn’t want to. 

They spend the day like any other in this place: trekking through darkened woods, avoiding Leviathan, taking out a monster or two (a rugaroo and arachnae). Cas is mostly quiet, Benny whistles, and Dean glares at their surroundings, watches Cas, and occasionally tries to make conversation. Benny snipes at Cas, Cas snipes back, Dean rolls his eyes and plays referee. 

By the time they set up camp, they’re one day closer to getting out of this fucking hell hole. Benny takes first watch, leaving Dean and Cas alone together. 

They’re filthy and tired (though thankfully not hungry or thirsty), a far cry from heaven’s mighty warrior and a cock sure kid who thought he could save the world once. 

Sometimes, when they’re together, it feels easier than breathing. They fall into a rhythm, they slot into place, and it just, well, it feels right…like coming home. Sometimes though, sometimes it feels like the silence might swallow them up—it’s so filled with things unsaid with ‘what if’ and ‘why didn’t you’ and ‘you should have’ and ‘it’s your fault’ and ‘it’s my fault’ and ‘I’m sorry’. 

Tonight it’s the latter. Cas feels it, he keeps wringing his fingers and he won’t meet Dean’s eyes. Dean feels it, he wants to throw something, punch something, he stares at Cas as if daring him to speak, but, when Cas gazes up at Dean with wide, sad eyes and a mouth twisted with remorse, all the resentment disappears, evaporates like morning mist. 

“You look like shit,” he says to break the silence, to forestall Cas offering to leave again.

Cas’ mouth contorts into something resembling a wry smile, “I believe I feel like shit.”

Dean snorts, “C’mere.”

Cas comes and sits by Dean, leaving a small distance (he finally gets the personal space thing when Dean couldn’t give a shit: typical), which Dean bridges immediately, crowding in close.

“’s cold,” he mumbles when Cas raises his brows.

Cas frowns, “I hadn’t realized.”

He shucks off his coat, and it sends a broken pang through Dean’s chest (irrational, he thinks, Cas is fine), but then he wraps it around Dean’s shoulders almost tenderly, and Dean stomach fills with warmth.

Cas hesitates for the barest moment before he wraps his arm around Dean as well.

Dean snorts, “’M not your frickin prom date, Cas.”

“No,” Cas agrees, “You’re not.”

Dean isn’t quite sure what to make of the reverence in his tone, so he doesn’t say anything, just lets himself bask in the warmth of Cas body and the comforting sound of his breathing. He takes Cas’ free hand in his own after a few moments’ anxious deliberation, and Cas laces their fingers together and holds on tight. 

When Cas goes to relieve Benny, he seems reluctant to release his hold on Dean, he leaves his coat—he looks smaller without it, vulnerable in just the hospital scrubs, filthy and ragged as they are—for warmth.

“Rest well,” he says brushing a hand against Dean’s hair. Dean closes his eyes and basks in the gentle touch. When he sleeps, it’s with Cas’ coat as a blanket.

IV

Their fourth Valentine’s Day is awkward. 

Cas is human, and it’s like all Dean’s deepest, darkest, most selfish wishes have come true—because now Cas can stay, now he can be with Dean, he can try burgers and every flavor of pie and he can sleep; he can move into the bunker and still be there when Dean wakes the next morning; he and go to the beach and he can get sunburned, and he can grow old and live life and be with Dean the whole while—except that’s not what happens, because wishes always come with a catch, and this is what he gets for wishing ill upon his best friend. 

Cas is human, but he can’t stay. He can’t stay because Dean is a desperate fucking moron whose decisions are going to alienate everyone he gives a shit about because that’s his life. Cas is human, but he hasn’t experienced any of the good shit—or he hadn’t anyway, not the last time Dean saw him, which was a few weeks ago when Cas was living in the back room of a fucking Gas and Sip where he worked because Dean kicked him out of a home that should have been his. Dean paid him up at the motel for the next two months, it was the least he could do, but he and Cas hadn’t, well, they hadn’t parted on good terms, and seeing Cas, seeing Cas as a human was—it was maybe the best and worst thing that’s happened to Dean in while.

Maybe that’s why he shows up for Valentine’s Day with no warning; he’s a self-punishing masochist. 

Cas is surprised and then almost angry, and Dean has a terrible moment when he thinks that Cas might tell him to go, get out, and not come back; and he has an even more terrible moment when he realizes he would deserve that, but Cas’ face softens slightly, even though the frown remains.

“Dean,” he sounds exhausted, “why are you here?”

Dean pastes a smile on his face, bright and cheerful, and totally full of shit, “Brought you this,” He slaps the box of chocolates he brought on the counter, “Thought we could share ‘em, maybe grab some food.”

Cas’ hand on the counter curls slowly into a fist and his face is terrifyingly blank, he looks from the chocolates to Dean with a furrow between his brows, “Why—I’m working, Dean.”

“Sure,” Dean recovers, “yeah, of course.”

Cas bites his lip, it’s such a human gesture, and Dean’s heart twists painfully in his chest. 

“I get off at seven.”

“Right,” Dean nods, “okay.”

Dean texts Sam, lets him know he’ll be back later. He plays a few rounds of pool at the local dive bar, scans some newspapers for cases, when he comes back at seven sharp, Cas is still working. He comes out at seven fifteen, five o’clock shadow in need of a shave, hair and clothes rumpled, looking tired. He slides into the passenger seat of the Impala and Dean drives them to a diner. 

They eat in fractured silence: burgers and milkshakes and pie. Cas has a perpetual frown on his face and Dean a forced smile. It’s agonizing. He used to be able to tell Cas anything, but now it’s like all the words are stuck. He can’t apologize, he can’t tell his secrets, he wants nothing more in the world than to take Cas’ hand, to press him up against the car or the table or the bench or any surface really and kiss him. Just use his body to say all the things that he can’t actually say with words, to take advantage of this moment where Cas can feel like a human can and make it count for all it’s worth, he wants to carry Cas home to the bunker and take him to bed and keep him there for days, he wants to get back in the car and drive and drive until no one knows them, till all their past falls away and they can just be Dean and Cas and be happy: adopt a cat (Dean’ll take Zyrtec), buy a house, visit every tourist trap between here and California, but…but that’s not an option. 

They got back to Cas’ room and they watch Happy Days reruns and eat the chocolates Dean brought, but there’s an abrasive tension between them that sets Dean’s teeth on edge.

“Why are you here?” Cas asks sometime around midnight. The chocolate is gone and a laugh track is playing, and Cas is clearly on the verge of sleep. Dean is uncomfortably, disturbingly awake, too on edge to be anything else.

“I missed you,” he says; it might be the first truth he’s spoken since he tricked Sam into saying yes.

Cas watches him in the dark, the light of the TV casting strange shadows against his face, he looks lost and unsure, and, beneath that hard, hurt. 

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” he says.

Dean swallows. 

“Goodnight, Dean.”

There’s a knot in his throat, “Night, Cas.”

Dean watches over Cas, and leaves before he wakes. 

V.

They’re apart on their fifth Valentine’s Day. 

Not separate planes of existence or different dimension apart, just several states away apart. It’s a manageable distance. Less easy to manage is Dean’s struggle with the Mark of Cain and Cas’ struggle to find its originator; Cas’ fading grace and Dean’s fading humanity. 

Dean was a fully-fledged demon a few months ago (Cas had pulled his ass out of the fire again), he was a teenager last week, there’s not a lot of consistency in his life right now, but talking with Cas is one of the few things that’s holding steady.

Cas texts. All the time. It should be annoying. It really should, but it’s not. Dean likes it. He likes waking up with texts from Cas: random factoids or observations, odd musings about morality, an ever increasing array of emoticons. 

Valentine’s Day is busy this year. Every day is a struggle not to go on a killing spree. Every day is a race to figure out how to fix this situation. He spends the day holed up in the archives reading up on biblical lore. His search comes up with absolutely nothing useful. Again. But when he emerges from the bowels of the Men of Letters’ files, there are three texts from Cas: one wishes him a Happy Valentine’s Day with a smiley face and a heart, the second is a weird bibliography of St. Valentine, the third is a picture of chocolate, the same brand that Dean brought for that god awful farce of a Valentine’s Day last year. His stomach twists painfully.

“Thanks, Cas,” he writes back.

Then, after a moment’s hesitation, “Wish we could share ‘em again this year.”

Cas sends back a smiley face.

“As do I.”

Dean smiles, tucks his phone away and heads back to work.

VI.

Their sixth Valentine’s Day is their best (so far).

Dean wakes up wrapped around Cas. It’s snowing outside, fat flakes blanketing the world beyond their window in a thick layer of white. It’s warm in their bed, beneath all the blankets that Cas insists that they keep piled high on the mattress. Dean’s not complaining on the icy February morning. Cas is snoring slightly, lips parted, hair standing in all directions, arms curled loosely around Dean’s back. Dean rubs his face against Cas’ sternum and Cas groans tries to burrow deeper into the blankets, pulling Dean with him. Dean grins and ducks out of Cas’ hold, dragging himself out of bed, leaving Cas grumbling something unintelligible into the pillows. 

Dean hops around the room pulling on the wool socks that Cas knitted him for Christmas, and tugging on a hoodie that’s changed hands between him and Sam so many times that he’s not sure who it belonged to, if it ever belonged to anyone. It’s Dean’s now, Sam can fend for himself. 

He brews coffee, the fancy expensive shit from Costa Rica that Cas loves. He makes French toast and squeezes fresh oranges into juice. He piles it all onto a tray and carries it up to bed.

“C’mon, wake up, ya bum, breakfast,” he calls when he kicks the door open.

Cas pokes his head out from the blankets, bleary eyed and clearly drawn by the scent of coffee. 

He closes his eyes blissfully, when Dean places the mug in his hands, humming pleasantly and leaning into Dean’s side, while he drinks the full cup. Dean works on the French toast until Cas slaps his hand away from the fork, and Dean roll his eyes good naturedly and feeds the bite to Cas instead.

“Thank you,” Cas says with a beatific smile.

Dean uses his thumb to wipe syrup from Cas’ mouth, before leaning in for a kiss. 

They make love in bed that morning, there are tears in Dean’s eyes as Cas kisses him slow and gentle, buried deep inside of him, whispering endearments into his skin, when he comes, it’s with Cas’ name on his lips. 

Dean and Cas spend the day at home; they watch movies and order a pizza, they make out lazily. There’s no rush; neither of them have anywhere to be but right here with one another (and isn’t that fucking awesome; the most fucking awesome). Dean maps Cas’ mouth with his tongue, he memorizes the weight and warmth, and shape of Cas’ body. They joke and smile and spend almost the whole day touching, casual touches: Cas’ arm around Dean’s shoulder; Deans hand on Cas’ thigh. 

In the evening, Cas feeds Dean pieces of a cherry pie he made from scratch, and they shower together after putting the extra whipped cream to more recreational uses. 

That night, when he falls asleep, nose to nose with Cas, hands clasped in the scant space between them, Dean can’t believe this is his life, can’t believe how fucking lucky he is. Cas smiles softly, his eyes closed, when Dean places a kiss to his forehead.

“I love you,” he whispers.

Cas squeezes Dean’s fingers and his smile grows by degrees.

“I know.”

“Asshole.”

“Mmmm.”

Cas kisses Dean’s lips and pulls him close. 

“I love you too.” 

“Good.”

**Author's Note:**

> This came upon me suddenly. I have a cold, I'm sorry. Happy V-Day, one and all.


End file.
